Cage
by rpmuleftw
Summary: He knows that voice. It's the one that murmurs quietly when he's awake, and the one that haunts his nightmares those rare instances he's allowed to sleep. Shukaku/Gaara. Inner struggle. Dark. Oneshot.


He knows that voice. It's the one that murmurs quietly when he's awake, and the one that haunts his nightmares those rare instances he's allowed to sleep. Shukaku/Gaara. Inner struggle. Dark. Oneshot.

I own nothing.

Reviews appreciated.

x

The floor is cold. Where did his clothing go? (Where did the world go?)

Let me out.

Something needles the back of his mind, a whisper in a crowded room. Except it's not _his_ mind, not anymore. The static in the air grows louder and presses close like a blanket, or a noose. His lungs aren't working right; the stifling air presses hard like a damp cloth over his mouth.

_Welcome._

Monster in my room, Daddy, monster in my room. Except nothing here is familiar, and no one's coming to save him. He tries to turn but his limbs are unresponsive. Are there limbs at all? His limbs? Where are they?

"Where am I?" Again he looks around but sees nothing, nothing and everything at once.

_My prison. Your prison. _Its voice is like fine silk pierced with a thousand needles. _Our home._

He blinks in confusion, subconsciously curling his arms around his small frame as if that can protect him from horrors to come. He knows that voice. It's the one that murmurs quietly when he's awake, and the one that haunts his nightmares those rare instances he's allowed to sleep.

"Am I dead?"

_Not yet._

Surrounded by mirrors. Where is his reflection? He can't tell. What is this place? There's blood everywhere.

Its mouth curls into a dagger of a grin.

Who are you?

And he falls to the ground, shrieking in laughter. The sounds aren't his. Feeble, it sneers. Weak. They wouldn't find the body.

What body? (This one?)

His lips quiver, goosebumps rising on his arms. Orbs of teal flick about wildly the way a deaf-and-dumb mouse's would in a room of ravenous lions, and even though it's not cold, his body shakes.

I don't want to die.

_Who says we have to?_

We?

Something rumbles, a yell that isn't his.

Ow - it hurts. No – stop! He's not - !

Drip.

Drip.

Silence.

"Did you kill him?"

…

Something repulsive plummets to the ground (what ground?) in front of him with a _thunk_. Liquid leaks and oozes from the holes and frothy goo soaks his leg. A sour stench of rotten fish and flesh and death a thousand times over permeates the air, forcing his throat to convulse, gagging.

"That's disgusting." He recoils, bile searing the back of his throat. There's a splattering sound and he rises, wipes his mouth, and moves away from the acidic stomach fluids staining the floor.

It rumbles and wheezes and there's something delighted in its gasp.

It's your fault. You did this.

It laughs again, a high-pitched chuckle that chills him to the bone.

"Monster." Except he's looking in the mirror again. Crimson drips from his fingers. It's mingled with grains of beige and gold. He can't remember how they got there.

Its voice dances. _They're my fingers now_.

And then there's a hook embedded in the back of his mind and it's pulling, threatening to overwhelm him entirely, and it's all he can do to resist succumbing to its taunting whispers. Tense fingers press against his temples in vain.

Don't hurt me. I'll kill you!

The threat crumbles to dust, empty and dry as winter winds.

_I would never hurt us_.

He licks his lips. Someone's lips.

...Are you me?

It pauses. He can hear breathing.

_Are _you_ you?_

(No?)

On another plane of existence, his brow furrows. (This can't be real.)

"I want it back."

_What?_

Myself.

_It doesn't work like that, boy_.

Everything is white. Or black; he can't tell. Either way, his eyes are no more useful than if they were marbles. He stumbles forward and the mirrors have become thick metal bars he can't see; for all the pounding he does, all he gets are red raw wrists and a sharp twist in his stomach like he's going to be sick. A shadowy figure with amber for eyes leers unblinkingly, but when he reaches out a wild, clammy fist through the bars, his fingers grasp mere wisps of smoke.

"Leave me be!" He hiccups, cheeks stained salty and wet. Clapping his hands over his ears proves fruitless.

_Shhh,_ it coos, and he's overcome with revulsion.

_I'll be here for you._

I hate you.

_I promise._

_Always._

_(I own you, after all.)_


End file.
